about myself, when nobody, that I know of, has requested any
information on that subject.

"As regards the size of the book, I have been thinking a good deal
about it. Considered merely as a matter of taste and beauty, the
form of publication which you recommend seems to me much preferable
to that of the 'Mosses.'

"In the present case, however, I have some doubts of the expediency,
because, if the book is made up entirely of 'The Scarlet Letter,' it
will be too sombre. I found it impossible to relieve the shadows of
the story with so much light as I would gladly have thrown in.
Keeping so close to its point as the tale does, and no otherwise
than by turning different sides of the same to the reader's eye, it
will weary very many people and disgust some. Is it safe, then, to
stake the fate of the book entirely on this one chance? A hunter
loads his gun with a bullet and several buckshot; and, following his
sagacious example, it was my purpose to conjoin the one long story
with half a dozen shorter ones, so that, failing to kill the public
outright with my biggest and heaviest lump of lead, I might have
other chances with the smaller bits, individually and in the
aggregate. However, I am willing to leave these considerations to
your judgment, and should not be sorry to have you decide for the
separate publication.

"In this latter event it appears to me that the only proper title
for the book would be 'The Scarlet Letter,' for 'The Custom-House'
is merely introductory,--an entrance-hall to the magnificent edifice
which I throw open to my guests. It would be funny if, seeing the
further passages so dark and dismal, they should all choose to stop
there! If 'The Scarlet Letter' is to be the title, would it not be
well to print it on the title-page in red ink? I am not quite sure
about the good taste of so doing, but it would certainly be piquant
and appropriate, and, I think, attractive to the great gull whom we
are endeavoring to circumvent."

One beautiful summer day, twenty years ago, I found Hawthorne in his
little red cottage at Lenox, surrounded by his happy young family. He
had the look, as somebody said, of a banished lord, and his grand figure
among the hills of Berkshire seemed finer than ever. His boy and girl
were swinging on the gate as we drove up to his door, and with their
sunny c